Smart Boys
by scriggly
Summary: Mycroft growls, "I am the smart one." Sherlock discovers his old, secret crush is not over. WARNING for incestuous thoughts and Season 3 Spoilers. Update: Now edited.


"I _am_ the smart one," Mycroft growls, fiery blue eyes flashing.

Sherlock is suddenly _dizzyingly_ hard.

His voice is steady enough when he replies, stunned. It's been years… Oh, this impromptu trip down memory lane was a very bad idea. He is positive he had wrestled that problematic crush to the ground. Has it been… lurking dormant all this time? Mycroft shifts elegantly in his seat and Sherlock's cock strains against its constraints, fully erect and throbbing. Definitely not dormant anymore, Sherlock notes glumly.

And he was so sure he had quashed it successfully too. He tries to shift the focus away from himself by asking about Mycroft and..._making friends?_ What kind of an idiotic question is that? Friends! His dashing big brother only has minions, subordinates, enemies, not-enemies, and admirers (the last group naturally consisting of everyone in the previous four, Sherlock grumbles inside his head). Friends indeed. He knows he has always been Mycroft's only real friend, which is the way he likes it. Couldn't he have found another idiotic question? Oh, Mycroft really _is_ the smart one.

His cock throbs again as Mycroft's silky voice expounds on goldfish. Sherlock thinks miserably that the last thing he needs now is more adoring thoughts about his brother.

Idiotic questions aside, at least his brain can still make his mouth carry on a conversation. Mycroft is sufficiently horrified by goldfish to get up and linger by the mantelpiece. No danger of any new friends stealing Mycroft's glorious attention then, thank God. Mycroft's attention should always be Sherlock's and Sherlock's alone. Bad enough he has to compete with Mycroft's sacred job, though thankfully not with his brother's overly devoted minions. Dull and stupid, the lot of them. Or dull. Or stupid.

He's jealous of dull and stupid people now. Fantastic. What does that make him? Maybe he's a schizophrenic. That would explain how he firmly believes in Mycroft's opinion that caring is a disadvantage yet simultaneously cares about Mycroft more than anyone else in the world. Mycroft is listening to him intently as Sherlock's mouth produces another reply. Of course Mycroft has to stand there in all his bespoke suit glory, drenched in soft golden sunlight streaming through the window…

Oh, he _really_ thought he was past all this.

His earliest memories are all richly colored with adoration for Mycroft. Puzzles, crimes, chemistry – nothing was as exciting as his doting, clever older brother. Throughout his adolescence Mycroft remained the single most exciting thing in Sherlock's world. The urges, on the other hand… Sherlock perfected the art of dashing off to his room under various convincing excuses whenever Mycroft came home from university so handsome and effortlessly dapper. Eventually Sherlock started to lounge in drawstring slacks. They were much easier to yank down behind his bedroom door, cock springing free into his fingers as he frantically brought himself off, stuffing a hand into his mouth to drown out his cries. Those loyal drawstring slacks, he thinks affectionately, recalling how helpful they were for hiding the countless erections Mycroft unwittingly caused him. So many experiments interrupted, so many deductions bungled, all thanks to his older brother. Sherlock was relieved to discover that all the frustrating urges Mycroft awakened in him were nothing more complicated than misplaced lust or a first crush that was unattainable and thus safe, according to the glossy magazine their aunt forgot and left behind. A third reason (this time it was a glossy magazine left lying open at the dentist's) turned out to be a lack of masturbation. His teenage self was impressed by the wisdom offered in glossy magazines, all the more brilliant because society ridiculed them. The very society that ridiculed him and his brain.

Then came university, and he finally realized the extent of the taboo. Even his own genius, darling mother would have been heartbroken. Everywhere he went, bumbling idiots dictating social norms found excuses for every possible human act under the sun, except for those… feelings. _Feelings,_not "urges" as they were darkly called in appalled, self-righteous whispers. They couldn't be mere urges when they made his heart swell with tenderness and his pulse race at the sight of Mycroft doing something completely normal such as studying, or having dinner, or doing his chores (and Sherlock's); made his words and his brain – his clever, clever brain – falter when Mycroft unleashed his brilliant smile at him; made him feel so light, _floating cloud breeze _light, when Mycroft told him how proud he was of his deductions.

Mycroft is clever, Sherlock would tell himself, cleverer even than him. He wouldn't care about society's taboos. He would read Sherlock and realize he felt the same way. So Sherlock waited impatiently for Mycroft to find out and finally, _finally…_Well, he waited. And waited. He clamped down on his feelings, sat on them, gagged on them, and waited.

Of course while he waited Sherlock had to walk the very thin line between being an affectionate brother and a… pervert. Every Christmas break he would go home ridiculously excited, part of him nearly walking on air, the other part holding its breath in case Mycroft had finally fallen for someone. A stranger, not Sherlock, therefore someone who could never hope to truly know how wonderful Mycroft really was, how he deserved to be treated, and loved, and adored.

He would hug his parents first, aware of a steady, glowing warmth at the edge of his vision where Mycroft stood waiting. Then he would look at his brother and smile unrepentantly until his cheeks hurt. Mycroft never minded Sherlock's crushing hug, or his sparsely timed yet very tactile displays of brotherly affection. In fact Mycroft used to ruffle his hair and playfully swat his hand whenever Sherlock tried to nick something off his plate. Yet he never told him to get another plate for himself, instead getting up and refilling his own so they could share. Sherlock always fished for those precious reassurances desperately, and he always found them.

It occurs to Sherlock that Mycroft no longer ruffles his hair, in fact hasn't for years. Why did Mycroft stop ruffling his hair?

Then Mycroft started receiving promotion after promotion, and became busier and busier, and the next time Sherlock saw him was after he was officially an addict. Mycroft was still his usual genius self, and his face still lighted up when he saw Sherlock, and he still had a very special, indulgent smile only for Sherlock, but he had suddenly turned into someone who _cared_ about society and its moronic taboos, values, norms. For the very first time in Sherlock's life, he saw distaste along with Mycroft's true concern.

He could barely breathe for the agonising pain. Those flickers of distaste made the decision for Sherlock. Mycroft was never to find out about Sherlock's filthy, perverted crush. Distaste, on Mycroft's handsome, clever face. And the myriad different emotions that would have inevitably followed on its heels – scorn, then disgust…

Mycroft's disgust is the one feeling Sherlock cannot _bear_to imagine directed at him.

Mycroft can ridicule Sherlock's friendship with John, ridicule John himself, even though John is Sherlock's best friend in the land of ordinary people (although John is acting like he doesn't know it now). Sherlock doesn't care: He knows Mycroft genuinely cares about his safety and well-being, and it's hard for him to trust a 1) stranger who is also 2) ordinary. Sherlock can't really blame him. John _is_an idiot most of the time. Not all the time, however. He's also Sherlock's very own ordinary idiot, and he knows Mycroft appreciates the exciting novelty of that.

Mycroft can call him slow. Sherlock doesn't care. Compared to Mycroft's brilliance, he _is_ slow. He's always racing to catch up with his older brother, always has and presumably always will. In fact Sherlock's awareness of what a genius Mycroft is only proves what a (lesser, true) genius Sherlock himself is. Quite honestly, Sherlock cannot imagine a world where anyone - even Sherlock himself - is cleverer than his big brother.

He doesn't care when Mycroft accuses him of always trying to rile him. He loves to bring up Mycroft's diets, because they are the only thing close to idiotic that Mycroft has ever done. Sherlock has never understood why Mycroft insists on starving himself (turning cranky instead of lavishing brilliant smiles on Sherlock, praising him for his deductions, asking if he's eaten, trying to foist government cases on him so Sherlock could make a show of complaining). Honestly, sometimes Sherlock is almost tempted to sit him down and order him to stop, for crying out loud. He perfects it, says it sternly over and over in his head, "Stop acting like an idiot, Mycroft, and have this slice of cake".

Because Mycroft is an... idiot, Sherlock thinks apologetically, if he thinks any man on earth could possibly rival his charm and elegance. No man could produce the precise, intimidating smile Mycroft gives the world (its delicious aloofness never fails to delight Sherlock, although he much prefers the smile Mycroft reserves for him, obviously). No man could hope to make a plain old umbrella an erotic object, for heaven's sake, which Mycroft accomplishes effortlessly as his sure, steady fingers slide fluidly up and down and around the handle. No man could hope to wear a suit like Mycroft. It always puzzles Sherlock how he never sees drooling men and women strewn in heaps on the floor, the street, everywhere Mycroft goes. He's even checked the streets and halls at Mycroft's work. Most probably MI6 agents slink expertly behind his big brother and haul the delirious bodies away quickly. Maybe they think Mycroft might stumble over them. As if his chic, graceful brother would _stumble,_Sherlock thinks scornfully.

Mrs Hudson brings in tea. He wonders what Mycroft thinks of her fondness for Sherlock. Has he ever been… jealous? (Please. Of Mrs Hudson? His brain must have begun to rot while he was "dead"). What about John? Not even once? Sherlock mentally glares at his brain. Definitely rotting. Enough of this nonsense, he tells himself, summoning Mycroft's stern voice in his head. He no longer has a crush on Mycroft. His secret is still safe. Mycroft has never suspected anything, not that there's anything to suspect because _he no longer has a crush on Mycroft,_Sherlock patiently repeats to himself_._ They are still each other's friends, best friends. Even better, Mycroft doesn't have a John equivalent from the ordinary world. Mycroft is too much of a genius to need an ordinary friend, Sherlock reasons. It's probably imbecilic on Sherlock's part, actually. Apparently he not only has John but also Lestrade. And Mrs Hudson. Even Moriarty saw this before he did. Damn. _Moriarty_ was smarter than him. Though not as smart as Mycroft.

And why should Sherlock want Mycroft to be jealous? He doesn't. He's past those feelings now. Yes, Sherlock adores his big brother, but only as a brother. And Mycroft still adores him too. Warmth spreads through him as he recalls how Mycroft smuggled Sherlock out of Serbia himself. He trusted no one else with the job. _No one._ Not one of Mycroft's carefully hand-picked team, Sherlock recalls giddily. Before that Mycroft literally _kidnapped_ John on the very same day poor John agreed to be Sherlock's flatmate. Not that John took it lying down, he remembers proudly. He watches Mrs Hudson leave the room. He has Mycroft all to himself again.

None of this is even relevant anyway. Sherlock obviously reacted strongly to Mycroft's voice because it would be easier to direct his lust at his old crush than at someone more suitable. The very thought of anyone else… Sherlock shudders inside his brain. No wonder he _thinks_ (thinks, he repeats, thinks thinks thinks) he's still infatuated with Mycroft. Also, it's always safer to crush on someone unattainable. And he definitely needs to masturbate more often if unwanted erections are going to hinder his intelligent thinking.

Sherlock is proud of himself for having correctly (and so brilliantly) pinpointed the real reasons behind his badly timed erection. Now that he's cleverly broken it down he can't believe he thought that pesky crush was still alive. Honestly, when did his brain slow down so much? He's actually beginning to sound like... well, John.

Also, Mycroft... growled. Sherlock is really going to have to ask him not to growl again. Ever. He may not have a crush on his big brother anymore and he may be a genius, but he is only human after all.

He doesn't even have time for this. There are so many exciting things to do now that he's finally back in London. Lestrade has an interesting case for him today, something that has stumped everyone else. _Oh_. A normal case then. Also, he has finally decided how to thank good, loyal Molly for everything she's done for him: a full day solving crimes. (Why has no one ever surprised him with something so lovely on his birthday? He's glad poor Molly has someone to delight her with such a well thought out gesture). And John will come round eventually when he realizes why Sherlock had to fake his death. In fact, as delightful as Mary is, John hasn't even asked her to marry him yet. Perhaps he'll just want them to be boyfriend and girlfriend like he did before Sherlock "died". Perhaps he'll move back into Baker Street, and Mary will visit. Sherlock generously decides she can even stay over between cases.

"Let's play something different," he says brightly, finally able to stand again. There, he thinks triumphantly, he's outdone his brain again. Crisis averted, freakish (former) perversions safely hidden from Mycroft. Oh God. He really must be schizophrenic if he's gloating at his own brain.

"Let's do deductions," Sherlock says. Oh, what a lovely idea. He mentally pats himself on the back. He has Mycroft's undivided attention, they're going to play the game they never - but _never - _play with anyone else. Their game. On top of all that – what a _relief!_ – Sherlock no longer has that old, silly crush on his unequalled, unique, brilliant big brother. Oh, it's shaping up to be a fantastic day.


End file.
